Amnesia
by OnlyImagine
Summary: When John is in an accident, he loses all memories happening after he was wounded while serving in the war.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock awoke with displeasure as he draped his arm across the empty space next to him. It was cold and his partner's imprint was fading, casting soft shadows across the bedspread as the light streamed through the far window. Huddling his arms close to his bare chest, the detective groaned, his usual call for his flatmate.

It took a moment before the floor creaked outside the door as weighted footsteps moved to the door and John peaked his head into view.

"Good morning." The routined gesture meant close to nothing to Sherlock but the wet tousled hair, the faint scent of shampoo, and the broad fingers tightening their grip around the identical tea cups warmed him."You sure slept in late."

Sherlock groaned, running his long fingers through the dark curls. Kicking the sheets off his legs, his lanky figure stumbled into John, balancing a cup on his finger. "Good morning, Doctor John Watson." He murmured into the shorter man's neck, leaning back to take a sip of tea.

"Twat." John snarked from behind him and a smirk tugged at the corner of his thin lips as he strode into the front room, blinking as he stared out the window. Everything was calm. It was a weekend, of course, at this hour everyone's still getting up. Not John though, he was always awake in the early hours, it was the one military thing that bugged Sherlock; he didn't enjoy waking up to a cold bed.

Without turning to face his partner, he took another drink of tea. "Any news on Lestrade's raid last night?" There have been several break-ins and a connected murder in the past month and they had been put on the case. Last night Lestrade and his team were supposed to get into the building Sherlock had lead them to.

"Oh, yes. He texted-" Sherlock turned and took the phone that was handed to him and began scanning through the messages; there was a whole conversation's worth of just Lestrade.

"Well, he sure was excited."

John's face brightened with a grin. "Yeah, pretty much in short they got our guy and he won't be seeing daylight for a while."

Sherlock tossed the device onto the nearby table. "Good." His lips wrapped around the simple word like it was an art.

He scooped up the newspaper and settled into his chair, flipping through the tall pages of fiction. A look of apparent amusement crept onto the detective's face as he skimmed the tiny text.

Sherlock didn't move when he heard John pull himself from his chair and walk into the kitchen, the fridge door swinging open with the sucking sound.

He was barely listening when he heard a murmur come from the other room. "Hm?" His brow lifted.

"I just got a carton yesterday. Where did all of the milk go, Sherlock?" Was he scolding him?

"I had other purposes for it." He answered bluntly.

Sherlock could hear mumbling but he couldn't make it out and he figured he didn't want to know.

He didn't even lift his gaze when John tromped out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

As the day rolled on, Sherlock had gotten dressed in his normal get up and sat at the dining room table, pushing around beakers to clear a space for his microscope to inspect his fizzling specimen.

John hadn't returned from his morning errand but he found no point in worrying over a fully capable man on a milk run.

Dripping a drop of liquid on the substance on the slide, Sherlock had to lean back as funes popped and smoked. Shifting his goggles to the top of his head, he leaned and scratched down his observations.

Popping his lenses back down, he leaned forward, stopping only at the buzzing of his phone, flashing his eyes at the screen for a moment, he ignored it and went back to work.

Again the buzzing. This time Sherlock grunted and tossed it over the back of John's chair, landing it on the cushion. Furrowing his brow, he continued his work, making a new slide and pushing it beneath the lens while ignoring the spasm of vibrations coming from the other room. It was probably just Lestrade, giving him the same spiel that he had gifted John with.

John. By this time, Sherlock's mind began to gnaw at him. He had been out for hours now, on a milk run. He hadn't even text-

Sherlock stopped in mid-thought and moved his gaze to the buzzing phone.

What could he be so excited about now that he was sending so many texts?

With a dish of bubbling liquids swirling in his hand, Sherlock pushed the chair back and retrieved the mobile from the chair. Flicking on the light to the front screen, he discovered that the texts were from in fact two people; neither of them John. Opening his messaging, he scrolled through the barrage from Molly and Lestrade.

Suddenly, Sherlock's heart dropped. The text he had just opened was from Lestrade.

_Sherlock, answer your bloody texts! It's John… There's been an accident._

Sherlock took no time before he sprinted down the steps, glass shattering on the floor behind him.

He didn't even let the cab come to a full stop before swinging the door open wide and throwing himself in front of Bart's at a dead run, shoes clacking on the pavement. Dodging through the open door.

The man's head began to spin as he saw Molly and Lestrade rushing towards him, grabbing his shoulders as they shouted words of reassurance, even though their hands trembled with anxiety.

"What happened? Where's John?" He waved away their rambles with his hand.

"A cab hit him on the way back from the shop-"Lestrade started only to be interrupted by Molly "He has a broken leg, several fractured ribs and a severe concussion."

"We tried to contact you at the scene but you weren't answering. He's in the second room to the left down the hall," Lestrade finished.

Sherlock had tuned them as soon as their panicked voices started up again but getting the information he'd wanted, he pushed them aside and proceeded down the hall.

Evading bustling nurses and doctors, Sherlock pushed his way through the door to the room, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of John's limp, battered features. It wasn't long before his eyes started to water and redden as he pressed his hands against his lips and stepped a bit closer.

Behind him there was a rushing of feet and nurse spoke up. "Sir, you can't be in here…Sir?"

The words were nothing but unintelligible blabber to Sherlock and he continued to edge forward, reaching out for John only for his hand to be tugged back as he was led from the room by Lestrade and Molly.

"We're very sorry." Lestrade's voice droned in his left. On his other arm there was Molly, her hand rubbing his shoulder gently as she squeaked, "Yeah… Sorry."

Sherlock had refused to return to Baker Street, he wanted to stay the nearest to John as he possibly could, but, after an hour of coaxing, Lestrade and Molly walked him down to a cafe to get a cup of tea.

He didn't talk the entire time, just sat with the steaming cup in his hand watching out the window for Mrs. Hudson who had shown up not too long before the three left and had promised Sherlock if there was any change in John's condition, she would come and get him.

His lids fell half way across his eyes as he focused on the steaming beverage sitting in his hand. He could hear Lestrade and Molly whispering in the background, something about distractions and emotional turmoil Sherlock failed to understand when put into words.

As the light outside began to dim, the cafe cleared out until it was just the three of them. Empty saucers had been pushed to the middle of the table and Molly and Lestrade began packing up.

"Well, I better be off, sounds like I'm going to have a long day tomorrow." Lestrade announced, tugging on his jacket. His hand wrapped around Sherlock's shoulder. "Get home. Get some rest," and with that he left with Molly shuffling behind him and they went their separate ways from there.

Sherlock slid back his seat and stood, walking deliberately out the door, flipping up his collar as the cold air nipped at his neck. With glances up and down the pavement, he turned on his heels and headed home.


End file.
